Monthly Archives: November 2016

(I am re-posting an old letter that has been greatly edited. I believe I posted this letter once before – years ago – on my blog – I’m getting ready to publish an e-book soon. I hope that you will enjoy reading this particular letter if you are a new reader. If you are a long time follower – be patient – I’m working on some new letters and will post some in the near future.) Thank you. – Sincerely, Mia Malone-Jennings

“Miss Nin is not in the usual sense, trying to tell a story. Her object is to reveal experience directly….she exalts love as the exclusive goal of living: and she can be fulfilled only by that absolute and total union with a lover which, intellectually she knows beyond the reach of human nature. It is, of course, one of the oldest subjects in literature, for it springs from an awareness of the ultimate isolation of every individual, against which the human spirits permanently rebels.” –Lloyd Morris, New York Herald Tribune, March 12, 1950

Dear Henry,

Today, I’ve been painting relentlessly for an upcoming art show at a Minneapolis art gallery. As I paint I have been listening to one of my favorite authors, J.D. Robb’s Timeless in Death, on audio book. Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks major ass! I listen to J.D. Robb’s books over and over again. I never get tired of her talent and the person who reads her intriguing, ingenious detective series. Susan Erickson has a multi-talented voice! She mesmerizes me, sucking me in, making me lose track of time as I paint away. She is seriously iced! Being seriously iced is a good thing in Lieutenant Eve Dallas’ gritty, crime-ridden realm and part of this futuristic world’s sci-fi lingo, which I love.

What I love most about the fictional character, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is that she’s a survivor in life. Eve’s my fictional hero. She talks straight from the heart and gut. She is straight to the point. Lieutenant Eve Dallas is direct and not afraid to be herself, regardless of her flaws. I’m not afraid to live my life as myself, greatly in part because of Lieutenant Eve Dallas’ courage and inspiration, and her ability to use her unfortunate circumstances in her childhood, such as severe physical, psychological and sexual abuse, to her advantage as an adult. I think Lieutenant Eve Dallas kicks some major ass in NYC in a fictional, futuristic world of 2059.

I’m going to be spending some long nights at the loft, painting, over the next few weeks. I’ve already been here for several days. In this letter I wanted to tell you about an awkward moment in my life, when I was dating, before meeting my second husband, Mr. C. It was over fifteen years ago when I used to chat in the evenings online and I met this gentleman from Long Island, New York several months after I returned from California and experienced my adulterous affair with Mr. California Man. I will name this gentleman, Mr. Mafia Man. We began by conversing in an IRC chat room regularly and sending private emails back and forth. We progressed rapidly into having very hot cyber-sex. My fingers typed fast and furious over my computer keyboard, horny and lost in our cyber- sexual tension. I was a single mother with two young children. I didn’t have time to look for dates at nightclubs or singles events. At the beginning of my separation from my ex-husband, cyber-sex felt safer for me to explore. I love to arouse the male senses with erotic words. It gives me quite the rush. To me, it is great masturbation material.

Soon after Mr. Mafia Man and I discovered our comfort zone via online chat and private emails, we eased our way to talking on the telephone. We conversed with each other almost every afternoon for several months. I loved listening to his thick New York accent. He pronounced the words, coffee (cawfee) cigars (cigahs), and water (watah). I remember back then how much I longed for New York City, even though visiting this magnificent city was then only a dream for me. I felt intoxicated by Mr. Mafia Man’s deep, charismatic, straight to the point, heavily accented voice. To me he was dreamy. I envisioned him to be tall, dark and handsome, which made me extremely aroused and my black lace panties very wet.

Our telephone conversations, heavily laced with phone sex, eventually led to our first and only meeting in downtown Minneapolis, many months after we first communicated online. I wore a classic, form-fitting, short black cocktail dress – the thick, black straps elegantly crisscrossing in the back. I put my hair up in an elegant up do to accentuate my smooth bare shoulders. Mr. Mafia Man was running late. I grew impatient after ordering a Perrier on ice, waiting for this mystery man at an upscale hotel’s bar. As the minutes ticked by, I pondered if this man was for real. “What if this was all a joke – and I’m waiting for no one?” I thought, frustrated, impatient and bewildered. Suddenly, my eyes narrowed in upon a tall, bulky gentleman walking into the fancy hotel bar, with a dozen white roses gripped in his hands. I was a little dumbfounded because he wasn’t as handsome as I had imagined him to be. But he did recall that I like white roses. I had to give him a plus for thoughtfulness. I thought Mafia Man’s appearance was a bit awkward and he appeared to me a bit like the cartoon character, Fred Flintstone. Yet, he had a distinct and diabolic way that he carried himself which intrigued me. So, I didn’t run when he wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned. Yet, I was intrigued enough by his initial charisma to remain on this date and discover more about this new person in my life.

“My apologies for being late,” Mr. Mafia Man introduced himself to me, appearing genuine, flashing an apologetic smile. Next, he astounded my naïve eyes by doing a quick, yet simple magic trick for me. I felt like a little girl again when he made his cigar ashes disappear from the top of my hand and reappear into the bottom of my hand. This was back when you could smoke inside Minneapolis bar establishments.

“You have a certain je ne sais quoi,” he told me after he brushed the ashes from the palm of my hand, turned it over and kissed the back of my hand like a gentleman, causing my face to flush, hot and pink. At that time in my young, naïve life, I was unfamiliar with the French language, so I stared blankly at his statement. I did not know if what he said was a good or a bad thing. I just smiled, like I do when my Korean mother is talking to me in her quick, heavily accented dialect and I don’t understand a word she has just said.

After our introduction, Mr. Mafia Man indulged in a strong alcoholic drink at the bar. I ordered another Perrier, sipping on ice cold bubbly water as we talked, before he invited me to his room. I thought to myself, “What the hell? I haven’t been intimate with anyone in months. Why not live a little and experience life?” So I followed him to his hotel room. I was quiet, not knowing what to say, my thoughts spinning in a million directions. “What if he murders me once we get inside this room? What if he wants to fuck? I didn’t bring condoms. I hope that he did. What if he sucks in bed and I have to fake my way through this? What if he doesn’t like a shaved pussy? What if his penis is super small and I can’t feel a thing? What if he’s weird and kinky? And would that be the worst thing? What if? What if? What if?”

“Mia, I have something important to tell you. My name isn’t really _____, it is ______ and I’m not really who I say that I am.” Mr. Mafia Man told me just as we entered his elegant hotel room.

“Oh shit,” I muttered in my head. My panic sped up my heartbeat, thumping fast and hard. My dark brown eyes suddenly went blank and then turned hazy with confusion. It took me a while to register what he was saying. “I have to protect myself, Mia. My wife is a Mafia princess. If her family finds out about this affair, I’m in big trouble.”

I saw nothing but the color of red before my eyes. Rage filled me. My youthful temper triggered easily. At that time in my life, I lived in a small Minnesota town and was lost in my own world of fiction and art a majority of the time. I didn’t get out often and I didn’t comprehend what Mr. Mafia man was telling me. This seemed too fictional to me. “No one really lives a life like that. Do they?” I thought, utterly perplexed.

“We have to keep our affair a secret. No one can know. Understand?”

I nodded my head, thinking that I did understand. But I didn’t. Not really.

“I want to take care of you and your children financially. I will give you a week at Club Med once per year, a generous allowance, and a college education for both of your children, if you become my secret mistress. Please don’t be angry with me for not telling you my real name. I couldn’t tell you this on the phone. Sometimes my wife has her goons listen to my phone calls. I’m surprised that I’m not in trouble already, for all of the time I have spent with you online and talking with you on the phone.”

I had never been propositioned like this before. I desperately needed the money to help support my children. My ex-husband was incapable of doing so. But, could I really do it this way? I honestly didn’t know.

I was shocked by Mr. Mafia Man’s offer. Shortly after we entered his exquisite hotel room, I was still stupefied by what he had just told me. I could only go with the flow. I didn’t have time to think about my next move in this intense, erotic chess game. Mr. Mafia Man moved with a great sense of urgency, commanding me to spread my legs wide after I fell upon the plush, king size bed. He gripped my black lace panties, pulled them down, abandoning them to dangle upon my right ankle. He hiked up my short black dress high above my hips. His wanton tongue licked salaciously upon my stiff, saturated stem of pink flesh and darted in and out of my creamy aperture like a tiny, wet cock. My nipples felt stiff as diamonds – completely erect with arousal. My toes curled and uncurled from a rushing, intoxicating flow of ecstasy. All of my atoms, skin cells, and senses were humming and buzzing with an incandescent energy. My soul was on fire! My eyes blurred and unfocused. My fingers gripped tightly at the soft bed sheets. My low, soft, sensual moans grew louder, transcending into desperate cries and ecstatic screams as he ate my apple like Adam devoured Eve’s in the Garden of Eden. My back arched high off the bed when Mr. Mafia Man sucked, nibbled and licked up and down my glossy, soaking wet clit like a rapacious wolf, who had not eaten in days – the sounds of his animalistic growling and moaning were muffled by my slick, quivering sex. I had to cover my mouth a few times, screaming into my hand, to soften my voice.

My body quivered in a lust-filled frenzy. My head wildly thrashed from side to side. My back arched high off the bed whenever his fingers deeply plowed into my convulsing slit. The sensual sensation curled my tingling toes. It felt so fucking good I could hardly withstand my mounting pleasure. My aroused hunger was being slaked. It had been a long time since I had felt this good. Mr. Mafia Man’s technique was not gentle and romantic. It was quick, mind-blowing, raw, animalistic and rough. Part of me enjoyed this, and another part of me was shocked with surprise. I was panting like a dog on a hot August afternoon. My tongue was parched. My throat was dry. I couldn’t believe that I was here, having my quim eaten by a man I hardly knew – a man with a dark, dangerous background. I had never been aroused to this level before with this kind of rough, indelicate skill.

When we finished with our sexual escapades, I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself with a white cotton washcloth, and matching soft hand towel. I winced, feeling sore between my legs, as I re-pinned and smoothed my hair. My hands and legs trembled after receiving such a hard and delicious orgasm.

When I exited the bathroom, I sat down on the messy bed, avoiding the wet spots, to relax and calm my trembling legs.

“Do you mind if I smoke some pot before we go to dinner?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t an uptight Republican.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “Do you mind sharing some with me?”

Together we smoked a long fat joint full of premium weed. I didn’t realize that my date had taken a tranquilizer when he was on the plane, later mixing it with the strong alcoholic drink he had downstairs in the elegant hotel bar. I regretted smoking my pot with Mr. Mafia Man, who wasn’t a regular pot smoker, by the time we took the elevator to the hotel lobby and exited the large glass doors. Mr. Mafia Man was very euphoric and boisterous in the taxi. I could tell he was extremely intoxicated when we arrived at an upscale restaurant on Hennepin Avenue – The Palomino Club.

I had never been to this exquisite dinner club, above a micro-brewery on downtown Minneapolis’s Hennepin Avenue. Up until this point in my life, my budget never permitted me to enjoy this kind of extravagancy. The wording on this dinner club’s fancy menu appeared foreign and frightening to me. However, the peculiar behavior I was observing from Mr. Mafia Man was even more horrifying. He had just finished his second strong drink of alcohol, soon after we were seated at our table.

When we received our order, I cringed with distress, dropping my fancy salad fork, which dinged loudly upon my plate. A few heads rapidly turned in our direction and then went back to their conversations. I was shocked by total disbelief. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Mr. Mafia Man was transforming into the hilarious cartoon caricature, Fred Flintstone. His awkward, cartoonish mouth grimaced largely, and then he grossly spit out his salad as if his mouth was a fancy salad shooter being sold on late night television. Part of me wanted to burst out laughing. The adult inside of me did my best to compose myself and desperately pray to the gods above that no one was observing this ridiculous scene.

Mr. Mafia Man’s eyelids were extremely heavy and droopy. His eyes were tiny slits on his large face, appearing more like Mister Magoo than Fred Flintstone, as both of his large hands were shoveling food into his mouth. I can’t recall what he ordered, but it wasn’t finger food. My mind was screaming, “GROSS! REALLY?! Pinch me. Am I dreaming? This can’t be happening.”

I was feeling kind of buzzed from the marijuana which Mr. Mafia Man and I had smoked in his hotel room, and I was doing everything in my power to control the deep down, silent belly laugh, that trembled and quaked in my pit of my gut. I quickly sobered up when Mafia Man pushed himself away from the table and began to stray through the elegant restaurant. He had no balance as he clumsily walked, stumbling over his large feet. He appeared as if Barney Rubble has just hit this image of Fred Flintstone with Mr. Magoo’s eyes over the head with a large wooden prehistoric club. I imagined that I observed little cartoon birdies flying around his head as he stumbled in circles throughout the restaurant and the entrance area. It must have been the pot and my overactive imagination. I was seriously concerned and completely embarrassed.

I was grateful for my past experience in working with people who were severely mentally ill, and in detoxification centers with alcoholics and drug addicts. As quick as a fleeting second, I regained my composure and acted on impulse. I retrieved Mr. Mafia Man, who had been wandering the elegant mall area attached to the restaurant and guided him back to our table. He was still dazed and stumbling on our way to his seat. His large body slumped in his chair after I guided him down into his seat as best as I could. His head was bobbing up and down with sleepy nods. The mix of a tranquilizer, two strong drinks of alcohol and marijuana had pushed this dazed and confused man over the edge. I wouldn’t have offered to smoke pot with him if I had known about the tranquilizer that he took on the plane. He was over the top inebriated. I didn’t understand why someone would mix alcohol, marijuana and a tranquilizer together, especially if you wanted to make a good impression on someone. Life is often full of funny, awkward moments. It definitely makes a humorous memory and great material for a hilarious story.

“Waitress,” I spoke loudly, catching the attention of a beautiful waitress. “Can we have the check and if you have a dessert with chocolate, can we get it to go? Also, would you please call us a taxi? Thank you.” I smiled as graciously as I could, attempting to cover up my embarrassment, as Mr. Mafia Man remained semi-conscious in his chair. His tongue was now sticking out of his mouth, with bits and pieces of food stuck to it. I wish I would have had a camera phone back then. It was a sight to remember.

“Did that same tongue lick my ‘who–who’ just an hour ago? It doesn’t look so appealing now,” I thought to myself while waiting for the check and dessert. I didn’t think about who would see the credit card bill when I signed my name. I didn’t know there might be repercussions for doing so – a consequence which Mr. Mafia Man would pay for when he returned to Long Island. Honestly, I just wanted to get this date over with.

After I signed the bill, I managed to get Mr. Mafia Man back to his hotel via taxicab. His large unbalanced body kept wobbling back and forth and swaying in small circles. When we arrived at his hotel and were riding the elevator, I attempted to get my intoxicated date to remain still. I sheepishly looked to the three older ladies in the elevator. They appeared very conservative, high class and amused. Suddenly, I hear a loud, large “BURP!” expel from Mr. Mafia Man’s mouth. On impulse, I scolded him like a mother would her child, “Don’t be so rude!” Instantly, I heard the three older ladies burst out in laughter, which only made me join them. I almost fell on the floor from laughing so hard when the elevator door opened onto our floor. My maternal instincts kicked in again, guiding Mr. Mafia Man off the elevator, leading him down a long corridor to his hotel room. I must admit it was difficult because of the inebriated state that Mr. Mafia Man was in, and because I was still laughing pretty hard from the weird, humorous scene in the elevator and about how absurd this entire date had gone.

“Come on. You are almost there,” I encouraged Mr. Mafia Man, attempting to silence my laughter, as we entered his hotel room and I managed to get his slumping, limp, heavy body onto his hotel bed. My empathetic soul couldn’t leave him alone in this inebriated condition. He was a mess! So, I remained the night and slept upon a small decorative couch nearby his bed.

When I awoke the next morning, I was still angry and embarrassed.

“I don’t want your allowance, your Club Med, or college educations for my children.” I hissed at Mr. Mafia Man, whose thick, dark Italian hair was an absurd mess. My anger flashed dangerously in my eyes. “I won’t be your secret Mistress.” I would not listen to what Mr. Mafia Man was trying to say, as I packed my overnight bag and exited his hotel room. That was the last time I saw Mr. Mafia Man. He did call a few times after he made it home to Long Island, New York. He said that his wife, the Mafia princess, found out about our encounter and that two of her goons beat him up and gave him a black eye. I’m unsure if his story about being married to a Mafia princess is even true. To me, it seems too absurd to believe. But it makes for a good story. Even if this man’s wife was not a Mafia princess, I enjoyed the belief of it being possible, and writing about my silly, sexy adventure.

(These letters are in raw – rough draft format – please pardon errors…Oh well ;)…thanks for being a patient supporter if you don’t really give a shit… enjoy the read. I’m getting ready to release my first 15 letters in sequence. Many are letters that have never been published online. I hope to publish near the end of January 2017 – Thank you again for your support – Mia)

10/29/16

Dear Henry-

People living deeply have no fear of death.- Anais Nin

There are two seasons in Minnesota which I generally enjoy – the spring and the autumn season. What’s ironic about these two seasons is that the temperature outside does tricks with a Minnesotan brain. When it is spring and 50 degrees outside, we wear spring coats, shorts and t-shirts, relishing in the warmth. When it is autumn and 50 degrees out, we put on our winter coats – shivering from being so cold.

I enjoy observing new life bloom in the spring – witnessing all of the vibrant, new colors blanketing the thawing earth as if it were a painting that is coming alive. In the fall, the ground and trees appear as if they are on fire, blazing with orange, yellow and reds, right before death – when the sadistic, winter blankets our state with thick sheets of frozen, white snow.

Indian Summer

The earth is dying while I witness

Leaves falling from the trees

The Northwinds kiss the southern

Which chills my trembling knees

The October wind is howling

The Universe closes begins to close its eyes

Until the sun starts to beam again

For Indian Summer’s on the rise

The Earth re-awakens

Yet, only for awhile

The sun offers its last rays of warmth

In gratitude I smile

The bees are buzzin’ before the winter

The flowers bloom one last time

Before the northwinds kiss again the southern

And the sun no longer shines. – Mia Malone-Jennings – Whispers of Gold

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday – before I decided that dressing up, pretending to be anyone I want for one day is over rated. I want to dress up on any day of the year, and be who ever I wish to be. I want to grow up to be much like the fashion icon – Iris Apfel. I bet that I sound like Mrs. Curmudgeon…right? I actually stopped celebrating Halloween when I stopped being a Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis, and a Burlesque Performer/Show Producer. It’s been numerous years after my departure and I still haven’t really felt like celebrating one of the best American holidays of the year.

I recall the years when I couldn’t wait for Halloween to arrive. My dearest friend – who I nickname my Mary Godmother owns a costume store in a suburb of Minneapolis, where I love to spend any extra cash and time. I would pick out my costume at the costume shop usually in July when the Halloween shipments first come into the store and put my elaborate costume on the layaway plan. My first costume was a white and gold, Greek Goddess gown. It took me five weeks to pay for it – paying a sum of 25 dollars each installment.

I call the store owner my Mary Godmother because she has supplied me with the most gorgeous Go- Go and burlesque costumes for over a decade – making me always feel like Miarella. Some girls only dream of having a Fairy Godmother. I’ve had the real deal. This woman has been a mother figure to me. She is my mentor and one of my dearest friends. I can count on this female friendship to always last. My Mary Godmother is always there for me, never judging how I live my life. She is there for me- always. I am lucky for have such a wonderful person in my life. I will write more about her later.

I wore my Greek Goddess costume on the evening I performed in my very first Ground Zero Halloween Skit at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis. There are two notorious Gothic nightclubs in Minneapolis – First Avenue Nightclub and Ground Zero Nightclub. I’ve performed at both and love them dearly. I have a fondness for Ground Zero. It’s my home, where I loved to dance and perform as a submissive. My name’s even immortalized on their nightclub wall and in the dressing room. However, First Avenue is where I got my start in fashion design (upcycling clothing) and Dr. Farrago’s Burlesque Theater.

Back in the day, GZ was notorious for their Halloween Extravaganza’s and the skits produced by the owner, MW. I had been performing as a Bondage A-Go – Go Dancer for at least two years. I believe this is the very first skit I performed in and I was so fucking nervous. It felt as if a dozen bats were set loose in the pits of my bowels, fluttering their creepy wings deep inside my lower belly. My anxiety rose like vomit up my stomach and esophagus, but I swallowed it down as I read the intricate, short, skit that the owner wrote. I was not good at recalling the exact details of the skit in a very short amount of time. I had about 20 minutes to digest it. I feared that I would disappoint everyone because I had one of the main characters – Shegor. I was re-creating Mistress Jeanenstein.

I’m going to try to recall the precise sequence of events during this gruesome, electrifying Halloween skit. It’s been a very long time since I performed it onstage. I remember how my heart raced so fast – my thoughts whirled inside my brain, nervously attempting to memorize the order of the script I was reading during rehearsal. The stage looked eerie and amazing. An evil genius named Sparky and the owner designed the set – appearing as if a dark and creepy laboratory. There was even an electrifying Jacob’s Ladder – created by Sparky, and a medical gurney with a tray of gruesome, female, body parts made of rubber behind a white screen.

An hour prior to Ground Zero’s doors opening for patrons, permitting them to enter the nightclub’s big Halloween extravaganza, we rehearsed the skit. As we ended it in rehearsal, and I was pretending to do naughty things to Mistress Jeaninstein – the bra she wore pierced through my cheek, causing real blood to drip down my body and onto the stage floor. Her bra wasn’t any ordinary bra. It had been made for MJ by a person who welded it for her. It was made of iron. Each cup had several points which were very sharp. MJ’s bra appeared gorgeous but was dangerous if anyone got too close to it.

On very special nights at Ground Zero, such as Halloween, New Years, and the infamous Rubber Balls, the DJ always played the very best of Electronic Dance Music. I was always the first performer to begin dancing on the catwalk, or stair landing and the last one to finish at the end of the night. I had passion, a creative soul and stamina. I lived breathed and dreamed of music and dancing. On nights like Halloween, I fed off the high energy of the crowds like a vampire does on blood – especially when these patrons were just as excited about Halloween as I was, cloaked in the most creative costumes. The people who attended Ground Zero on Halloween loved the holiday as much as I did. They didn’t give a shit about a costume contest – as long as they could dress up. GZ never hosted any Halloween costume contests when I performed at this nightclub as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer. People arrived dressed in the most wicked, creative costumes – arriving for the dancing and to see the midnight stage show, which was always spectacular.

It was most likely near midnight when I finished performing with MJ as her submissive upstairs in the loft. I scurried down the steps in a pair of black, thong panties and black, electrical tape covering my large, round, brownish-pink nipples. My ass was flaming red from the spankings I had just received. It kept my body warm and my blood tingling with a mad rush of endorphins. I felt high on pure adrenaline.

“It’s time to get ready for the skit,” I heard someone tell me when I entered the dressing room which was scattered with numerous duffle bags and little suitcases which carried their costumes for the night, an array of cosmetics bags, boxes, stage make up, fake blood, curling irons, hot curlers, and cheap plastic glasses that were partially filled of alcoholic drinks.

“Shit!” I exclaimed to MJ as I put on some small, black, fancy lingerie, a corset, and a white lab coat. “What if I don’t recall the exact sequence of how to put you back together again?”

“Don’t worry,” MJ responded wearing a small pair of black, thong panties, with an overlay of pointed metal panties, as well as the beautifully welded bra and panties a patron of the club had made for her, months prior. I feared her bra because the side of my cheek still throbbed from where it had pierced through it during rehearsal. “I’ll be behind the screen. If you forget, just ask me. Just go with the flow. You’ll figure out what to do. I always do.”

“Who is this Shegor character anyways? “ I was so nervous and full of apprehension that I pronounced Shegor as Shygor inside my head during rehearsal. I had no clue I was playing the female equivalent to Egor – the mad scientist’s assistant. This could’ve ruined the entire skit. But, because I didn’t know, I added my own style to this version of Shegor. I was supposed to wear my hair all messy and perform with a bad limp. I couldn’t afford wigs at the time and my hair was too thick to put under it. My hair was too dense to keep it appearing messed up with hairspray. Back then, I had the Bettie Page hairstyle. I didn’t know that I was the equivalent to Egor, hence no bad limp either – just sexy hip bumping, hip grinding and hip gyrating. It was so much fun! (There are times when I’m grateful to be an idiot savant)

“Art teaches nothing, except for the significance in life.”—Henry Miller

When the curtain went up at midnight and the naughty, eerie, sexy skit started, everything became a dreamy blur. I was so nervous I wanted to puke on stage. But, soon, Shegor became my own creation. I was grateful that I was too busy to stop to get something to eat on the way to GZ. I wasn’t going to puke a hamburger and fries all over the stage. That would’ve been disgusting.

On stage there was a gruesome table full of rubberized, female body parts, soaked in fake blood. I pretended I was evil and very interested in each piece. I started with the hands and feet, strutted and dancing naughtily, until it was time to take them back behind the screen. MJ’s body was silhouetted by dim light behind the large white screen. The borders facing the audience flickered with electric lights. The patrons can visually see me piecing this gorgeous creature together again behind the screen. When it came time to put Mistress Jeaninstein’s va-jay-jay back inside of MJ – I strutted on stage sexily, before creeping behind the screen, teasing all the girls who plastered their bodies against the stage. They stared at me with starry eyes when I demonstrated how my fingers would tease and taunt a pretty pussy like the eerie, bloody one I was handling. I believe that was my favorite part of the skit. I love to make others feel something when I’m dancing on stage, in a cage, or high on a catwalk. I love to make others feel something when I’m creating art, sewing, sculpting, writing, or performing on stage. It’s a large rush for me. It’s the reason I am an artist. I definitely didn’t do it for the money.

No one had any clue that MJ had been talking to me behind the silhouetted screen, telling me which order the body parts go into her. I had never acted on stage before, nor given a complex script which I had to memorize in about fifteen minutes. I was pretty much performing with an impromptu spirit – going with the flow when I forgot how the script went. The Halloween skits each year, only lasted approximately ten minutes, so I didn’t have a lot to recall. However, to me those ten panicked moments felt like an hour. However, once I found my zone – abandoning every my sense of my nervousness, I discovered my theatrical flow and went with it. Once I did, time flew past quickly.

Soon, Mistress Jeanenstein had been recreated. Shegor beamed with pride when she led her new, lovely creation out from behind the screen. Moments later – Shegor and her monster were lasciviously bonding on stage. This time, no one’s cheek was pierced by the monster’s pointing, metal bra.

The curtain comes down – lights go dark – dance music begins to play- end of skit.

I must admit that it was the skits that interested me the most at Ground Zero Nightclub. I arrived as a Dancer/submissive when the GZ players performed a skit every Thursday night. I adore dancing. Yet, it was the naughty skits produced on stage that made me a dedicated performer for so many years. It took two years of dedicated Go-Go dancing and being a performance submissive, much like the character, Mimi, in the infamous book by Steig Larson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, to get to perform in my very first skit. If I hadn’t befriended the notorious Jean Bardot, I do not think my time at GZ would’ve been so eventful.

I wish I could go back in time – stop it for a decade – when I could remain in my 30’s forever. If you are a young woman reading this – live your thirties well. Make the memories last forever.

Actually we are a vulgar, pushing mob whose passions are easily mobilized by demagogues, newspaper men, religious quacks, agitators and such like. To call this a society of free peoples is blasphemous. What have we to offer the world besides the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment? —Henry Miller